


Black's Books

by come_slyther



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And I fucking love her for it, Bookshop owner!Draco Malfoy, Dating, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Fluff, Draco is a sasspot, Draco owns a muggle magic shop, Eventually it will get smutty so rated mature for that, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione knows everything, I love the idea of him trying to sell tarot cards to a muggle, M/M, Ron is a well rounded individual, Ron is so supportive, Ron really learned after the Triwizard Tournament and the locket of doom, auror!Harry Potter, draco x harry - Freeform, harry x draco - Freeform, with a straight face
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-06-24 18:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19729477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/come_slyther/pseuds/come_slyther
Summary: It was at Black’s Books that Harry had run into his former school nemesis for the first time since leaving Hogwarts. He’d been seeking shelter from an unexpected summer shower, choosing last-minute to duck into the unassuming bookshop with the peeling green paint and small handwritten ‘Open’ sign rather than brave the hip record store next door (it had nothing to do with the intimidatingly cool guy flipping through the bargain bin outside, thank you very much). Harry’d been greeted by six foot two of gorgeous, lanky blonde wearing a cosy-looking grey cardy, tight jeans and an even tighter smile as he took in his customer. Six months and fourteen dates later, Harry Potter told Draco Malfoy that he was in love with him.This is the story of those six months.





	1. Black's Books

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel of sorts to my one shot Making Time - I love the idea of Draco owning a muggle esoteric bookstore and wanted to expand that a bit more. I've done some googling and it seems like no one's snagged 'Black's Books' in the HP Fandom before...but just in case I haven't been thorough enough can you please let me know! 
> 
> The bookshop is loosely based on Treadwell's on Store Street, if it was a set in Charmed - do visit Treadwell's if you ever have the time, it's a fascinating little place! I used to go there for open circle, which was a really great experience too but they don't have that anymore. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading & hope you enjoy - stay tuned for rest of it (it will keep me motivated to write it!!). xx

It was a known fact of both the magical and muggle universes that sunny weather in London was to be enjoyed with a healthy dose of suspicion. Despite this, Harry Potter found himself caught in a brutal spring downpour as he meandered down a wide, tree-lined side street in Fitzrovia. Having left his wand at Grimmauld Place and woefully inept at casting a wandless _Impervious_ , he quickly scanned the small shops and boutiques through the bleary lens of his glasses for a suitable place to dry out. The little record shop with the bright pink awning would have been Harry's first choice, but he was somewhat put off by the achingly cool guy flipping through the bargain bin outside, still wearing his Rayban Wayfarers even though the weak April sun had long since been swallowed by thunderclouds.

His eyes moved to the next shop up. The dark green paint was peeling away in places, with fading gold copperplate lettering spelling out _Black's Books_. The window display featured several hefty tomes, a fan of tarot cards, a dusty crystal ball and - most intriguing to Harry - a white cat curled up, fast asleep. Decision made, Harry ducked his head and strode towards _Black's Books_.

A faint chime rang as he entered the shop, which was small and cluttered but surprisingly light inside. All along the walls were floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, with no discernible filing system – some were double-stacked, with some books turned so that the glint of gilt pages was all Harry could see; some shelves were crammed with books at strange angles and spilling onto stacks on the floor; yet more shelves had orderly rows of books interrupted by a stack of cards bound with twine and a sprig of sage, or a small bird’s skull, or a velvet pouch. A small counter sat at the back next to a rainbow display of candles and, behind it, a doorway where a set of stairs was just visible. A strong woody smell permeated the little shop, making Harry feel instantly at ease despite his sodden clothes sticking to his skin unpleasantly. He moved to the nearest bookshelf, his trainers squeaking softly on the dark hardwood floor. Running a finger along the wooden shelf, he realised all the books were about magic. _Muggle magic_ , his brain supplied.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Beattie, I-"

Harry paused in reaching for _The Art of Palmistry_ , knowing that sharp, aristocratic tone anywhere. It had been three years since Harry had last heard that poncy drawl; three years since Eighth Year had ended, since he'd been around anyone posh enough to make their consonants sharp enough to cut glass.

He spun around and took in all six foot two of Draco Malfoy coming around the counter, a stack of books under one arm. He was long and lean and - dear Merlin - _utterly fucking lovely_ in a cosy grey cardigan, tight black jeans and slightly scuffed brogues showing off a flash of his bright scarlet socks.

"You're not Mrs Beattie," Draco said as he pulled up short, his smile growing tight on his face. “Unless you are - in which case, Agnes dear, you look _terrible_.”

Harry chuckled. "Careful, Draco, you’ll give me a complex.”

Draco regarded him coolly, his deep grey eyes sweeping Harry's face. After a moment, his mouth quirked up on one side and he reached behind him to set the books on the counter.

"Hullo, Potter," he muttered. "Don’t get saviours around here too often. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"The rain," Harry replied, gesturing at his sodden clothes. "How've you been?"

Draco tutted and ignored the question. "Why haven't you cast a Drying Charm, Potter? You're creating a health and safety issue."

"What?"

Draco gestured to the wet floor around Harry. "Muggles love health and safety," he said with a small smile.

"Ah. Sorry. I left my wand at home today. Wanted a bit of a break from wizard life."

Draco cast a quick look to the front door, before reaching into his cardigan pocket and pulling out his wand. "Undetectable Extension Charm," he muttered at Harry's puzzled look. (Harry was also ashamed to say that he just barely stopped himself blurting out _Is that a wand in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?_ ). Draco gave a complicated wave and Harry felt a Drying Charm wash over him. The water on the floor swirled up into a little whirlpool, and lazily meandered over to a slightly dusty peace lily with a soft gurgling sound.

"Thanks," Harry smiled ruefully.

"You're welcome." Draco slid his wand back into his pocket. "Feel free to stay until the rain stops. Try the shelf by the window – there’s some fascinating books on Muggle tasseomancy that’ll take you right back to Third-Year Divination. Did you know some Muggles try to see the future by reading patterns in wine sediment? Sounds like a great drinking game.”

“They have more in common with Trelawney than I realised.” Harry was momentarily stunned by the wide smile that flitted across Draco’s face, bringing out the pretty dimple in his left cheek. He cleared his throat. “How’d you wind up working here anyway?”

Draco pulled a biro out from behind his ear, tousling his hair. “Long story. For another time, perhaps.”

Harry watched as Draco walked back around the counter, pulling the stack of books towards him and starting to write something in a large, leather-bound ledger. “You look really good, Draco.”

He paused in his writing but didn’t look up, the pen poised above the page like a guillotine about to drop.

 _In for a sickle, in for a galleon._ “Are you finally going to let me take you on a date?” Harry continued. “You did promise.”

“Eighth Year was a long time ago, Potter,” Draco muttered as he began writing again.

“Ah, so you do remember.” Harry frowned. “Besides, it not that long ago.”

Three years ago, as they’d parted ways on Platform Nine and Three Quarters after a year spent as roommates and tentative friends, Harry had finally mustered up the courage to ask Draco on a date. He’d been saying goodbye to the Weasleys and Hermione, and getting ready to Apparate to Grimmauld Place when he’d spotted a flash of cornsilk hair. Draco had been standing off to the side, watching the Hogwarts Express with a slightly wistful look on his face. Harry knew Draco was going to stay with his mother in Bergerac over the summer until he sorted himself out. With Lucius serving a life sentence in Azkaban and Malfoy Manor seized as part of their reparations, there wasn’t much for Draco and Narcissa in wizarding London. Harry’d felt a soft panic that this could be the last time he saw Draco, and before he knew it, he’d stepped away from his friends and over to his former roommate and tentative friend – and not-so-tentative crush.

Harry could still remember the slight sadness he’d felt when Draco had given him a crooked half-smile and then, taking a deep breath, said _I’m flattered, Potter, truly I am, but this isn’t the right time. For you_ or _me. Ask me again the next time you see me. I’ll say yes._

And then he hadn’t seen or heard from Draco for three years. He’d sent a few owls, giving up when Florence at the Owl Office started giving him pitying looks. And then he’d filed his attraction to Draco along with all the other what-ifs in his life and thrown himself into Auror training. He took overtime whenever it was offered and gave the money to orphanages up and down the country. He slept, he went to work, he saw Ron at training and Hermione when she joined them at lunch from Level Nine. He went to the Weasley's once a month and played the odd Seeker's match with Ginny, leaving as soon as Molly's face became too wistful (she still hadn't gotten over their mutual unwillingness to get back together, although Molly's wistfulness seemed to lack intensity since Neville, on his first meeting of the Weasley family as Ginny's Official Boyfriend, had bought her some Rollicking Roses). Harry went out to Muggle bars a handful of times and occassionally went home with a man or woman that was usually pale and blonde and – if he hit the jackpot – acerbically witty. He didn’t have the time to be lonely, even though he felt the ache of it on the occasions when he couldn’t sleep.

Harry was pulled back into the present when Draco put his pen down and looked him squarely in the eye.

“It’s a terrible idea.”

Harry tilted his head in vague agreement. “I’m pretty much the poster boy for terrible ideas. What’s one more?”

Draco bit his lip as if to stop himself laughing. It gave Harry a little surge of hope, which he latched onto, propelling himself over to the register. “Go out with me, Draco.”

“I’m not…I’m not like I was in Eighth Year, Potter.”

“So?”

“So…what you thought you felt then, it might not…I might not…it’s a terrible idea.”

“Draco, you’re handsome and you’re interesting and you make me laugh. I know that about you from seeing you _today._ So let’s go on a date and you can catch me up on the rest?”

Harry watched as Draco went through some sort of internal conflict. His self-control, ingrained from his pureblood, aristocratic upbringing, was unable to hide the slight tightening of his jaw, the almost-imperceptible frown between his eyes as his mind worked.

“Fine. Owl me. I live upstairs.” And with that, he spun around and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Harry with a parting “and don’t nick anything from my shop, Potter.”

Harry grinned. Outside, the sun broke through the clouds.

***


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a short update! I thought I would have a lot more writing time this weekend but I didn't and had to cobble this together on the tube! x

Harry had just finished writing a report on his latest case when Ron stood up, unfurling all six foot four of his gangly frame and stretching his arms over his head, almost brushing the enchanted ceiling (an act that used to wind Harry up until he realised that five eleven was a perfectly respectable height, thank you very much).   
  
"Right, Har, I'm off," Ron announced, throwing his red Auror robes haphazardly over his chair.   
  
"Hold on, I'm about done with this report and then I can go down to the Floos with you," Harry muttered distractedly.  
  
Ron sat on his desk and surveyed Harry with a raised eyebrow. "You're not pulling overtime tonight?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Are you ill? Terminally?"  
  
Harry chuckled as he neatly packaged up the finished report in a protective charm and then placed in his outbox tray, where a localised banishment charm sent it to Robard's inbox with a soft _pop_. "No, you tosser. I'm meeting someone for drinks."  
  
He stood up, sliding his robes off and hanging them on the coat stand, just in time to see Ron's expression of incredulity. And he could understand why: gone was Harry's usual uniform of casual-grunge attire (just because they'd ushered in a new millennium and Holly Valance had taken both the wizarding and muggle worlds by storm, didn't mean Harry was ready to ditch the plaid). Instead, he had put on his fancy dark green button-down (the one that made his arms look amazing, according to Ginny) and black jeans (the ones that made his bum look amazing, according to Ron) and he'd even had his hair trimmed (in the way that made his cheekbones look amazing, according to Hermione).  
  
"Like, a date?"  
  
"Like a date," Harry confirmed with a grin as they exited the Auror offices. They just managed to catch the lift, squeezing in past a pair of witches dressed in the gunmetal grey robes of the Magical Accounts Division. Harry gave a polite smile as the taller of the two giggled at her friend. While the witches and wizards up at MAD were the worst with the flirty smiling and the flirty touching and the flirty autograph-hunting, it paid to be nice to the finance team - no matter how much Harry didn't want to sometimes.  
  
"Who're you out with?" Ron asked, eying the witches with interest (he had no such qualms about being nice to the finance team). About a year after the war, he and Hermione had decided they were better off as friends - the best of friends - and Ron had since enjoyed batchelorhood immensely.  
  
"Draco."  
  
" _You're dating Draco Malfoy?!_ " Thankfully, Ron had enough sense to keep his voice down, but Harry glanced at the witches just in case.  
  
"Well, not technically, no, given that tonight's our first date." A cool voice announced their arrival at the Atrium. "But I hope so."  
  
"Blimey, Harry. Where did you even find him? He's been fucking AWOL since we left Hogwarts. Wait, you've not gone all Sixth Year on him again have you?"  
  
Harry rolled his eyes, just as he spotted Hermione by the Exit Floos. "I got caught wandless in a rainstorm and ducked into the bookshop he owns. We had a chat and I asked him out. No stalking involved, promise."  
  
He waved at Hermione, who gave them both a tired grin when they approached.  
  
"Alright, Mione?" Ron said, throwing an arm around her shoulders for a quick squeeze. She patted his hand affectionately and nodded.  
  
"Yeah, I'm alright. Glad it's the weekend though. Are you not doing overtime tonight, Harry? Not feeling well?" Harry rolled his eyes again; yes, he often did overtime on a Friday but was it really _so_ strange for him to be leaving work at 6pm?  
  
"He's going on a date!" Ron replied gleefully before Harry could respond. "With Malfoy!"  
  
Hermione glanced at Harry, her eyebrow raised slightly. "Really? Well that can only be a good thing, if it means you actually leaving work at the time you're supposed to." She smiled. "How did that come about then?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "Just bumped into him in Muggle London."  
  
"Don't play it down, Har. It was very romantic, Mione, like Notting Hill." Since Arthur had spelled a video player to work at the Burrow, the Weasleys had incorporated a muggle movie into their weekly Sunday dinner. Having skipped the previous three, Harry had felt compelled to attend the last one, where Ron had promptly fallen in love with Julia Roberts after watching a double billing of Notting Hill and Pretty Woman.   
  
"It was nothing like Notting Hill," Harry said firmly. Thankfully they were almost at the Floo, which meant he only had to endure his best friends' teasing for a little while longer.   
  
"Where're you meeting him, then?"  
  
"We're having some drinks at the Fitzrovia Tavern."  
  
"Wait a minute, Draco Malfoy is having a drink at a _pub_? A _muggle_ pub?"   
  
Harry nodded. "A muggle drink at a muggle pub." He grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and gave his friends a rueful grin. "Then I'm hoping he'll shag me in a muggle alley."

And with that, he stepped neatly into the Floo. He made a mental note to save the memory of Ron's face to rewatch in a Pensieve later.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been away for the weekend, but I'm back and here's our lads on their first date!
> 
> I think there will be about five or so more updates (not really chapters), based on the outline I've got. As ever, thanks for reading!

Their first date started as something of a disaster.

Harry Apparated to a small side street around the corner from the pub, still grinning slightly as he remembered his parting words to Ron. His best friends had been incredibly supportive when he first came out to them, although Ron was still quick to flush when Harry spoke crudely. The sharp _crack_ and faint smell of ozone that followed Apparition was quickly swallowed up by the less-than-pleasant scent of the bins lining the back of the pub, and the sound of loud conversation coming from the high street.

The Fitzrovia Tavern was more of a traditional boozer than the fancy gastropub that Harry had anticipated: the checkerboard floor was a little sticky, and the wood-panelled walls made everything seem darker. It smelled like beer and ready salted crisps, and in the corner, a rowdy darts game was being played. Harry spotted a shock of white-blonde hair. Draco stood slightly off to the side of the bar, staring into a glass of red wine as if it was the centre of the universe. He wore a simple white shirt and the same jeans and shoes from the other day, except this time his socks were a rich, peacock green. Harry wasn’t usually the type to take note of people’s clothing, but even he couldn’t miss the way the shirt stretched across Draco’s broad shoulders and hugged his biceps.

Harry grinned as he stepped up to Draco and placed a hand on his waist. It was meant to be a sexy, intimate gesture, and perhaps it might have been, had it not been somewhat mistimed: Draco, lifting the wine glass to his lips, startled when he felt Harry’s touch and sent the majority of his drink all over his white shirt. It soaked down from the edge of the collar to where his nipple was pebbled, the wine dark and purplish like a bruise.

“For fuck’s sake!”

“Shit, sorry!” Harry reached out instinctively to try and help, but Draco batted his hand away.

“Leave off, Potter,” he muttered irritably as he shook red wine off his hand. “You’ll make it worse.” He tutted once before spinning on his heel and stalking off to the gents, leaving Harry reeling slightly. Yes, it was an unfortunate start to the date but it had clearly been an _accident._ And what did it matter anyway, given that Draco was a wizard - and quite a skilled one at that, if his Eighth Year Charms practicals had been any indication - a swish of his wand and his shirt would be back to its pristine whiteness in no time.

When Draco reappeared some long moments later, Harry had managed to quash his indignation and had bought a round of drinks. He nudged the glass towards Draco with a sheepish grin.

“I’m sorry about that,” Harry said and Draco regarded him coolly with his wide grey eyes. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Draco shrugged, clearly still a little annoyed. “Serves me right for drinking red while wearing white, I suppose.” His shirt was damp and semi-transparent where it stuck to Draco’s skin, but the worst of the stain appeared to have been lifted.

“Didn’t you, _y’know,_ ” Harry lowered his voice and looked around before continuing, “use a spell?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “No.” He drank a tiny bit of his replacement wine, which Harry took to be a good sign that the date wasn’t over yet.

Harry took a sip of his ale. “Why not?”

“Because, Potter, there’s only two cubicles in there and both were in use. I couldn’t very well whip out my wand at the urinals!”

Harry couldn’t help snorting at the unintended innuendo, but his laughter died off quickly when he realised Draco hadn’t found that quite as funny as he did. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get the stain out in no time when you get home.”

“That might be sooner than I anticipated,” Draco muttered, sighing when he caught sight of Harry’s answering grimace. “I apologise, Potter, that was rude.”

“That’s okay,” Harry smiled tightly. He was starting to wonder whether this really was as terrible an idea as Draco had said it would be. Three years apart had clearly done a lot to erode the foundations of friendship they’d built in Eighth Year.

Draco nodded awkwardly and then looked around the pub, which was starting to fill up. The silence between them was tense, bracketed by the laughter and chatter of the groups around them.

“Do you-”

“So what have-”

They both stopped talking abruptly. Harry took a large gulp of his ale and gestured for Draco to continue, but he shook his head. “We’re not very good at this, are we?”

Harry set his drink down with a dull thud as his temper spiked again. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “You’re the one that almost took my head off over an accident.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Hardly, Potter.”

“My name is _Harry_.” He took a deep breath and then gave a small, crooked grin. “This might be the worst date you’ve ever been on, but at the very least you could call me by my name.”

It took a second, but when Draco gave a small smile in return, it made Harry’s heart sing softly. “Okay. Harry. And this isn’t the _worst_ date I’ve ever been on.”

“No?”

“It’s a close second,” Draco smirked.

At last, they both finally relaxed and started to talk. Draco told Harry about his _actual_ worst date (“He was like a Devil’s Snare, only not as polite with the grabbing”), which made him chuckle and spurred a competition to tell their worst dating stories. Harry filled Draco in on the less glamourous reality of being an Auror (“and then this fucking demon kneazle comes shooting out of the chimney, claws-first, and I swear to Merlin- _hey, stop laughing at my trauma, Malfoy!”_ ). In turn, Draco regaled him with a few choice stories about the muggles and – surprisingly – squibs that frequented Black’s Books (“I’m just saying tarot is ambiguous at best. There was one lady called Joanne who would always offer to read my cards. The one time I let her, she spent forty-five minutes telling me I was going to marry a friend of the family, have a son and – worst of all - grow my hair out and wear it in a _very precise ponytail_. I told her I was quite assuredly gay and that low-rent Legolas wasn’t really my aesthetic, and she hasn’t come back to the shop since.”)

When they had made their way through another drink and reached a natural lull in their chat, Draco gave a soft yawn. His cheeks were flushed and his mouth was a little dark from his wine. The remnants of the stain on his shirt had dried to a dull greyish colour, and his face was slack and relaxed. It was the most adorably rumpled Harry’d ever seen him, and it made Harry want to mess him up even further.

“I should probably get going soon,” Draco said. “I have to be up early to open the shop.”

“You never did tell me how you ended up with _Black’s Books_. Or what you did for three years when you left.”

Harry hadn’t meant to sound quite so accusatory - and really, what was he accusing Draco of, not responding to a few letters? – but it came out a little sharper than he intended anyway.

Draco sighed and ran a fingertip down the stem of his wineglass. He stood up. “Walk me home?”

Harry felt a little disappointed that he’d been brushed off once more, until they stepped outside into the cool April evening and started walking, and Draco spoke again.

“You know I lived in the south of France with Mother.” Harry nodded. “At first, I was only going to stay with her for a couple of months, to sort out the last bits of my probation – getting a job and such.”

They walked quietly for a moment until Draco started speaking again.

“I sorted out our assets and paying reparations, that took some time. We didn’t have much left after, pretty much everything Malfoy had been seized. But we had Mother’s Black inheritance…the villa, some vaults. I helped Mother with her rose gardens, went to my Wizengamot-appointed Mind Healer sessions. After about a year, Mother gave me a stern talking about _living for myself_ and _seizing my second chance._ She can be rather terrifying when she wants to be, you know. I’m not sure it’s quite what she had in mind, but a few weeks later I came out, moved back to London, and started on undoing years of pureblood propaganda by buying a failing esoteric bookshop.”

Harry chuckled. “You always had such a flair for the dramatic,” he teased, softly shoving into Draco with his shoulder. He was delighted when Draco nudged him back. “Do you like it? Working at the shop?”

“Yes, I really do. It’s given me some much-needed structure, I think.”

Harry nodded. “I feel the same about being an Auror, although I think it could have been any job, really. I just needed something to get me up and out of the house.” He looked up, a little surprised to find that they had arrived at the bookstore already.

“Thanks for walking me back,” Draco said with a half-smile. He pulled out a set of keys and opened a door at the side of the main entrance to the shop. A quick flick of a switch illuminated a long hallway that led to the same steps at the back that Harry had spotted when he’d first been in the bookshop. Draco stepped inside and turned around. “I did get your letters, you know. I still have them. I just didn’t know what to write back...My mother needed me and, to be frank, I wasn’t quite sure where we stood. I’m sorry if I…well, it was rude and I apologise.”

Harry nodded and took a step back. “That’s okay. I’m really glad you’re back, Draco.”

There was a brief moment, when it seemed to Harry that everything stilled. He’d never know who moved first (years later, Draco would swear it was Harry with his “foolish Gryffindor tendencies”) but all of a sudden, he had a hand on Draco’s nape and another wrapped tight around his waist, and Draco was fisting his hands in Harry’s shirt, and their mouths met awkwardly until he tilted his head _just so_ and then it was really _really_ fucking perfect. Draco’s mouth was hot and insistent, and when he opened up to let Harry lick inside, it tasted both sweet and sharp. Harry swallowed a groan and stepped forward, pushing Draco into the hallway and crowding him up against the wall, one leg between his, never breaking the kiss. He dimly recognised the sound of the door clicking shut in the background. He felt feverish, his blood fizzing beneath his skin, ready to combust. As he kissed down Draco's neck, his mind raced with wild, jumbled thoughts like _he smells like soap_ and _his skin is so warm_ and _is this what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object_ and _is that his dick_ _oh sweet Merlin that is that’s his dick._ He felt his own trousers tightening even further and he couldn’t help grinding his hips forward, revelling in the incredible pressure of his erection on Draco’s, and the guttural moan that spilled from Draco’s mouth.

Eventually, they broke apart, breathing hard as they rested their foreheads together. Harry peppered Draco’s face with a few chaste kisses that somehow seemed more intimate than the fevered frotting he'd just been doing.

“I should go,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. “I don’t want to, but I should.”

Draco nodded, dropping his hands from where they’d twined in Harry’s hair. “Yes, that's probably best.”

Harry stroked a finger down Draco’s jaw, marvelling in how smooth it was. His own evening stubble had left Draco’s chin red where it had rasped against it. He pressed another soft kiss to the sore spot, and then one to Draco’s mouth. “Will you Owl me?” He waited until Draco nodded and then stepped back, out into the street.

“Night,” he smiled and then Apparated straight into his bedroom. He barely lasted a minute before he came all over his fist, the taste of Draco Malfoy still sweet and sharp on his lips.

-*-

The next morning, Harry woke up to the incessant tapping of an owl at his window. He stumbled from the bed and let the bird – a magnificent sandy-coloured eagle owl – swoop into his room. It landed on his dresser and hooted softly when Harry untied the letter from its leg and reached into the drawer for a treat.

He sank back down onto his bed once the owl had left. He opened the envelope with bleary eyes, unfolding the letter inside with a yawn that racked his body. A smaller piece of paper fluttered down towards the floor and Harry just caught it in the tips of his fingers. It was a Muggle receipt from _Cleaners A-Whistle, Torrington Street, WC1E_.

He examined it for a moment before he returned to the letter. He read the words, written on thick parchment in an elegant looping hand that he’d know anywhere, and chuckled softly.

_You may buy me dinner in recompense. Let me know when you're available.  
_

_DLM_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I abandoned this one for a little while! I'm a horrendous procrastinator. 
> 
> Thanks in advance for reading, I hope you enjoy it. There'll be another update soon (promise!) xx

_You better come to brunch this week or mum’ll have you._

_Ron_

Harry sighed as he crumpled up the parchment in his hand and tossed Ron’s owl a few treats. He was bone-tired, having gotten home in the early hours of the morning after getting through the mountain of paperwork to finally close his latest case, a counterfeit potions ring in East Anglia. In the two months since he started dating Draco, he found his enthusiasm for overtime and investigating crimes up and down the country had waned dramatically; gone was the fervent desire to be constantly active, to heal through hard work, and keep his mind occupied with finding the patterns and connections and salient details in cases. Now, he wanted to spend his time with Draco; and not just because he fancied the pants off him (literally), but because he liked listening to him talk about the different customers that came in to his shop, and he liked how Draco would sometimes smile so widely it would bring out the dimple in his cheek, and he liked how Draco’s eyes would gleam when he spoke about Leonie, a squib who was using his shop after-hours as a space for other wizard-borns to meet and talk and learn about Muggle magics.

Harry felt the tell-tale spark of warmth in his belly as his thoughts moved back to Draco. That morning after their first date, Ron and Hermione had Flooed over to Grimmauld for breakfast – and yes, Hermione had said in a no-nonsense tone as she buttered her toast, for the gossip. (Ron taken one look at Draco’s note and rolled his eyes: “He could’ve cleaned his shirt up with a _Tergeo_ , the dramatic prat.”). On Hermione’s recommendation, he’d booked a table for two at an intimate French restaurant in Belgravia for the following week, and whiled away the morning talking with his friends and composing the perfect reply to Draco, tactfully disregarding every single suggestion Ron made. (Although he couldn’t help but grin when he imagined how Draco might react to _Dear Ferret-Face, are you free next Saturday? I would love to get your sheets so dirty no dry cleaner on earth could fix them._ )

There had been a smile on Hermione’s face when she and Ron were leaving, and when Harry had raised his eyebrows at her she’d given him a tight hug and whispered, “It’s nice to see you interested in something other than work.” 

Dinner had been perfect; unlike their first date, they’d chatted comfortably and easily from the start, Harry revelling in the way Draco would wave his forkful of food around as if to punctuate his precise, crystal-cut words. They'd shared a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that perfectly complimented the smoky coq au vin, and made Draco’s face flush in a beautiful way.

When Draco gave a soft moan of pleasure as he tried the dark chocolate mousse they’d decided to share for dessert, Harry had to artfully arrange his napkin over his lap and take a gulp of water. He carried on making small noises of pleasure as he ate, licking the spoon lasciviously and looking at him with hooded eyes, until Harry had felt like he might faint from all his blood rushing south. When he’d finally leaned over and quietly asked if Draco wanted to go back to Grimmauld Place, Draco had immediately dropped his spoon with a clutter and rolled his eyes, muttering, “ _yes,_ Merlin, I thought I was going to have to fellate the utensils all night before you got the message.”

Harry had sat in delicious tension as their waiter cleaned up their plates and brought over the bill; he left so much money on the table in his haste to leave that Draco would later refer to the date as “the time Harry tried to impress me by leaving our waiter an eighty per cent tip.” He pulled Draco into a small quiet alley, almost drunk on the scent of bergamot and citrus and musky male skin as Draco wound his arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. He Apparated them straight to his bedroom, feeling the _Fidelius_ wards around Grimmauld Place shiver as they realigned to include Draco’s magic. He had let Draco fuck him, that first time, one hand wrapped around Harry’s chest, the other holding his cock like a vice and the lewd slapping sounds as he thrust into him tipping Harry over the edge more intensely than ever before. Later, after a cleansing charm and a fortifying nap, Harry had rolled Draco over onto his back and shoved a pillow under his hips, his beautiful long legs falling open to display the little furled hole that was the same shade of dusky pink as his cock. Casting a barrier charm, Harry had spent a long time teasing his way in with well-oiled fingers and a greedy tongue, before sinking into Draco with a breathless moan.

Between Harry’s shifts at the DMLE and Draco’s shop hours, free time was scarce, but in the last two months they’d managed to go on six dates. By unspoken agreement, they only went out in Muggle London; Harry had noticed that Draco seemed uncomfortable talking about the wizarding world, even though he used magic often, and he scarcely mentioned any wizarding friends (although Harry knew Draco’d seen Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and Greg Goyle for drinks a few weeks ago).

Their third date had been dinner at Draco’s, Harry feeling right at home in the cosy but charmingly shabby flat above the bookshop, with its hardwood floors and proliferation of threadbare rugs. The little white cat, who Harry learned was called Mabel, had twined around Draco’s feet as he cooked a seafood linguine and tapped his toes – clad in bright fuchsia socks – along to the radio. After they’d eaten, Draco had poured them both a glass of wine and, picking nervously at the cuffs of his (spotless) white shirt, he’d told Harry that _they needed to discuss their past before they could start creating a future_. The conversation that followed had been exhausting, their voices growing increasingly hoarse as they spoke into the night and navigated their childhood animosity, their roles in the war, their tentative friendship in Eighth Year; unflinchingly picking apart all the strands of their story.

When Harry had finally got up to leave, Draco had given him a sad little half-smile and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek; it had felt a bit like a goodbye and Harry had been so panicked that he’d Flooed Ron and Hermione at dawn the next morning. Together, the three of them had lain on the grass in the backyard of Grimmauld Place, watching the day break as Harry worked his way through his feelings and they once again penned an Owl to Draco. (Ron’s suggestion of _Dear Ferret-Face, why don't we show them what interhouse cooperation really looks like; you can Slytherin-to me and I'll make you Gryffin-roar_ had been unanimously vetoed, including rather sheepishly by Ron himself.)

A week later, Harry’d taken Draco to an art show in the South Bank, where they walked around the industrial gallery with their fingers interlaced and discussed the large, abstract paintings while sipping on glasses of truly atrocious white wine. He’d looked at Draco, his silvery eyes bright as he talked about _composition_ and _dynamism_ and _are you even listening to me, Potter?_ and Harry knew he wanted to go on many, many more dates with Draco.

Their fifth date had been to a grotty little bar in Soho to watch a drag queen called Miss Fortune, who had danced and sung and draped a string of pearls around Harry’s neck with a lewd joke and a wink at the crowd. Draco had laughed uproariously and neatly tucked a tenner in the neon yellow garter around her thighs, before pulling Harry in by his pearls for a snog to the catcalls and cheers of the people around them. After the show, they’d gone to a club and danced to rubbish pop songs until the early hours of the morning; Harry had been painfully tired at work the next day but the reminder of Draco pressing him into the sheets and fucking into him slowly kept him going until it was time to go home.

And last week, they’d enjoyed a lazy Sunday meandering among the greenery at the Chelsea Physic Garden, kissing by the Pond Rockery and pausing to sniff at lush, fragrant blooms. Draco was fascinated by the Garden of Edible and Useful Plants, crouching to read the little signs about the flora and its uses. He’d looked up with a little grin and Harry, impulsive to his core, had blurted out that he wanted to tell the Weasleys about them. A long discussion later, and Draco had acquiesced.

And now Harry had to get ready for Sunday brunch, where he was going to tell Molly and Arthur just why he hadn’t been to see them in a couple of months. He showered slowly, the hot water easing some of the cobwebs from his mind and the aches in his shins where he’d taken the brunt of a Leg-Locking Jinx a few days prior. Before long, he’d run out of steps to add to his usual morning routine, and he had no choice but to grab a pinch of Floo powder and, with some trepidation, step into the swirling green flames and shout _The Burrow!_

“Harry, dear!” Molly bustled up to him as he stepped out of the Floo, thrusting a pile of plates in his hands and smacking a kiss to his forehead. “Here, we’re eating in the garden today. Can you get these out to the table, love, and I’ll grab the bacon.”

He smiled and went out to the garden, where the dining table and chairs had been nestled into the grass. At one end of the garden, Molly’s Rollicking Roses had bloomed nicely, and their tinny rhymes added to the lazy buzz of bees in the lavender bushes that bordered the house. At the head of the table, Arthur was tinkering with a Walkman and having what appeared to be quite a serious discussion with Hermione about Muggle pop music. Fleur was taking a pair of secateurs to the flowers around them, adding blooms to the whimsical bouquet in the centre of the dining table as Neville, with Ginny perched in his lap, told her that in Victorian flower language she was essentially saying she was sorry to be there with them and was hopeful it would end soon; Fleur’s tinkling laughter joined Ginny’s as they proceeded to try and build the most offensive bouquet that they could. Harry chuckled, dutifully doling out the plates before dropping into the seat next to Ron to watch George and Bill’s rather raucous game of Exploding Snap end with singed eyebrows on all three Weasleys. The table was crowded with platters piled high with pancakes, trays of fluffy scrambled eggs, juicy-looking sausages, perfectly browned potato hashes and everything else they could possible want for brunch. The aroma of bacon drifted over to him as Molly came over, making his mouth water.

As everyone settled into eating, the conversation meandered through Ginny’s latest tour with the Hollyhead Harpies, Bill’s work strengthening some alarm hexes at Gringotts – at this he fixed Harry with a wry grin and informed him the goblins sent their regards – and Hermione’s thoughts on the Ministry’s latest educational reforms which included a host of Muggle and wizarding arts programmes at Hogwarts. She told them that it was Dean Thomas, who Harry didn’t see that often anymore now that he and Seamus lived in Hogsmeade, who had led the way for a dedicated Art and Design OWL, teaching Muggle art history and techniques as well as the magic behind animating wizarding paintings and sculptures. Hermione had tactfully sidestepped Molly’s wistful comment about how lovely it was that Dean and Seamus had stayed together all these years after meeting at school, responding innocently that hadn't Ron recently been out with none other than Lavender Brown, his very first girlfriend at school? Ron had spluttered as his mother seized on the information, giving Hermione a very un-gentlemanly middle finger salute when Molly’s gaze was turned.

When there was a soft lull in conversation, Molly turned a shrewd eye to Harry and said, “So what have you been doing lately, Harry dear?”

Ron snorted as he grabbed the last piece of bacon, and muttered, “Not what but _who._ ” There was a thump as Hermione kicked him under the table.

“Er, well.” Harry’s throat felt very dry all of a sudden, and he swallowed. “I’ve been seeing someone, actually. Romantically. In a romantic way. We're dating.”

"Merlin, Harry, stop being so vague," George said with a grin.

Next to him, Ron’s shoulders were shaking silently and Harry viciously hoped it was because he was choking to death on the last piece of bacon. He looked up and caught Hermione’s eye, and she gave him an encouraging smile.

“Well, tell us all about her!” Molly grinned.

“Or him,” Arthur added quickly. They’d been impressively supportive when Harry had first told them he was bisexual, but sometimes Molly’s eagerness to see Harry settle down in a relationship came out very single-minded. He knew it was meant with no harm though; when he had explained to her and Arthur that although he liked both men and women, he found himself being more drawn to men as he explored his queerness, Molly had immediately reeled off the names of half a dozen _lovely young wizards you might get on with, Harry dear._

“It’s a him.” Harry took a deep breath. “He’s a wizard but he owns a bookshop in Muggle London. He’s gorgeous, and so funny, and he makes really good pasta, and he has a white cat called Mabel who’s got one blue eye and one yellow eye.” Ginny grinned at him across the table, the sunshine throwing golden sparks through her fiery hair. “I really _really_ like him.”

Molly beamed. “Oh Harry, that’s so wonderful! You seem so happy.”

“I am, yeah.”

Arthur smiled at him. “So, what’s this lovely chap’s name then, Harry?”

“Ah, right.” Harry steeled himself. “It’s Draco Malfoy.”

If Harry could have predicted a reaction to those words, it would have been unanimous outrage; he’d been steeling himself for it for a week, imagining a scenario where Molly burst into tears, and Arthur’s infallibly kind smile darkened; where George held one hand to his missing ear and the other to his chest, and Bill’s scars whitened as he clenched his jaw; where Ginny snarled, spitting sparks, and Neville drew himself up to his full height, ready to once again do battle with snakes.

What he didn’t expect was Molly’s smile to remain unwavering on her face as she asked, “And where did Draco Malfoy get a cat with eyes like that?”. He didn’t expect Ron to hand a Galleon to George with a groan, who was apparently cashing in a bet they’d when Harry’d been _a bit too attentive to the ferrety git in Hogwarts_. When Arthur enquired kindly as to where Draco had been for the last three years, and whether he saw anyone from the wizarding world, he certainly didn’t expect Hermione to chime in, telling Arthur that her fellow Unspeakable Pansy Parkinson ventured out to Muggle London to see Draco occasionally, along with Blaise and Greg. (Harry had blurted out _Since when is_ _Parkinson a fucking Unspeakable?_ just as Ron chimed in with _Why are you blushing, Mione?_ and by some miracle, the curse word went right over Molly’s head.)

Later, when he was in the kitchen stacking the clean dishes back into the cupboards, Molly came in and gave him a huge hug. He pulled her into his arms, smelling the chamomile of her washing charms on her clothes and the honey-vanilla scent of her favourite perfume potion.

“Thank you for being so accepting.” His voice was muffled on her shoulder. “I know it can’t be easy.”

Molly pulled back and reached up to smooth a hand through Harry’s wild curls. “Darling boy. Your hand on the family clock used to point to work more often than it did home. And in the last couple of months that’s changed; you’re happy, so we are too.” She smiled. “You know, when I told my brothers that I was going out with Arthur, they were furious; Arthur’s mother was born a Black before she married Septimus Weasley. My brother Gideon told me that only rotten apples came from the Black family tree.” She gave Harry’s cheek a soft pat. “Merlin knows history’s proven that wrong. And your young Malfoy, he’s a Black too.” She drew back and pulled out her wand, waving it at the remaining dishes and sending them soaring to their rightful places.

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to Harry. “Do tell him he’s welcome to join us at brunch sometime, dear.”

Harry smiled. “I will.”

-*-


End file.
